Any Port in a Storm
by birdbuoy
Summary: Cooper A. Monroe had a normal human life, with normal human problems and a normal human home he arrived at after every normal human workday. Until he began receiving odd, unmarked packages containing strange, sometimes dangerous items. Now it seems like his life has been slowly spiraling into chaos, as the objects he receives slowly begin to tear his life apart.
1. Parcel

My name is Cooper A. Monroe. I'm 27 and I was born on February 21st, 1992 to Elizabeth Monroe and Barry H. Monroe. I live on 4456 Commerce Boulevard in Sacramento, California and I graduated from Arensberg High School in 2010. I once had a pet dog named Bruno, who died on the 27th of January in 2017 at the age of 14. I have not now, nor have I ever been, a toaster.

Okay good, I'm still right in the head, let's start over.

Hi, I'm Cooper, and as of right now, I have no idea what's happening.

Let me start from the beginning, up until a week ago, I was living an utterly, completely normal life. I had a steady income, a house, and a promising future at the company I worked. Well, I suppose I _still_ have all of those things, for now at least.

Sorry, I'm getting off-topic. Things started getting strange when I received a knock at my door, I don't usually get visitors and I wasn't expecting one anytime soon. Dreading the thought of having to interact with a solicitor, I was surprised to see there wasn't _anybody_ on the other side of the door. I growled in frustration, a ding dong ditcher, no doubt Susans son, I'd have to have a talk with her about her little snot monster later.

I was about to close the door when something on the ground caught my eye, a cardboard box. I tentatively approached the package on my doorstep, hoping it wasn't part of some prank the ditcher was pulling. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the outside of the box was completely blank, with no return address, no stamps, no labels, nothing.

I prodded the box with my foot, fully expecting something to jump out of it and scare me, like one of those peanut brittle cans with the fake snakes in them.

When nothing like that happened, I sighed in relief and brought the package inside.

If this was some kind of prank, it was a pretty elaborate one, and honestly, I'd feel bad about not seeing it through to the end.

I tore the masking tape off the box and opened the lids, what was I going to find? Dog shit? Fake blood? Maybe a spring-loaded boxing glove that would punch me in the face? The possibilities were truly endless.

Well, I moved the packing peanuts within the box aside and found…

Me.

God fucking dammit. I did it again, didn't I?

Okay, I'm going to do my best to write this in a way that will make sense. Just keep in mind, **I. Am not. Crazy.**

* * *

Hello, I am a toaster. I do not know who sent me, why they did it or where I came from. All I know is that I appeared on Cooper A. Monroe's doorstep on September 15th, 2019. The box I arrived in was completely barren of anything that would indicate my origins.

When Cooper first saw me, he was surprised at first, then confused. Was leaving me, a seemingly random toaster, on someone's doorstep considered a joke now? Was he _that _out of touch?

I had a note on me when he first pulled me out of the box, "Don't interact, keep away." Cooper frowned, this was getting old, he thought. Though perhaps it _wasn't _a prank, Cooper began to consider that maybe I really _was _just a misplaced package. But if that were the case, why the note? Why hadn't he seen or heard a mailman leave me?

Nevertheless, Cooper decided to investigate, with me in tow, he exited his house and began to ask his neighbors if they were expecting me. When all of them said no, Cooper made his way back home and phoned the local post office, perhaps _they_ would have answers?

They didn't, of course. In fact, the lady who picked up on the other end thought Cooper was pulling a prank on _her_, which he thought was rude, he had said nothing that would indicate he was doing that.

Had he?

Thankfully, Cooper had an app on his cellphone that would record his phone calls. Cooper had always been prone to spacing out in the middle of a long call and missing key details, so the app was useful in that regard.

Cooper replayed the call he just had with the post office, listening for anything that would make them think he was pranking them.

"Thank you for calling USPS, how may I help you today?"

"Yeah hi, I'm calling about this package that showed up on my doorstep, it doesn't have a return address or anything. I was wondering if maybe one of your guys made a mistake and delivered it to my house by accident or something?"

"Mhm, could you tell me what was in the package please?"

"Me."

"I'm sorry, what did you say was in the package, sir?"

"Me, uh… I'm made of stainless steel, with a black lever and a black power cord if that clears things up."

There was a pause on the other end, "Sir please do not use this line for practical jokes, have a good day."

And then she hung up.

Suffice to say, Cooper was confused, _very _confused.

However, after a bit of thinking, he quickly rationalized that he was simply tired. He hadn't had his coffee this morning and his tongue had slipped, nothing more to it.

Cooper looked back toward me, "I'm really a curiosity, aren't-"

Cooper stopped.

"Ahem, I mean _I'm _really a curiousi-"

Cooper growled in frustration.

"Okay, _I _am Cooper, sitting in the box over there is _me_."

Cooper put his hand over his mouth and backed away from me in shock.

He turned towards a sofa that was in the living room behind him and pointed a quivering finger at it, "_That _is a sofa."

Cooper sighed in relief and turned back to me, "And _I _am a toas-"

Cooper let out a frustrated scream. This was a dilemma, Cooper thought, had he really gone so insane as to think he and I were the same person?

He paused, maybe he _wasn't_ insane?

Maybe he really _had been a_ toaster this entire time, and he just hadn't realized it until now.

Thoughts filled Cooper's head. Strange thoughts. Perverse, yet oddly comforting thoughts about setting himself on a counter, plugging into an electrical socket, and shoving as much bread as he could into his…

Cooper came to his senses and shook his head, dispelling the thoughts.

What the hell was wrong with him? He considered visiting a psychiatrist but stopped when something on me grabbed his attention. It was the note that had shipped with me, the one he had carelessly glossed over once and then almost completely forgotten about afterwards.

"Don't interact with me, keep me away."

Three hours later I was back in my box and under 3 feet of dirt in Cooper's backyard.

I'm still there, Cooper.

* * *

As I mentioned before, I don't know where the package came from, or why I can't write or talk about myself in anything other than the first-person. I'm stumped on what to do, I think I'm safe from myself now, but I can't be too sure.

I was hoping to avoid saying "if you're reading this, then that means I'm dead" at the beginning of this journal entry because it doesn't really fit with my situation (and it's a bit cliché), at least not yet. There's nothing stopping me from trying to get this out into the public, hell I could probably make some pretty good money off me. It's just that I feel… weird. Like I've somehow managed to stumble into something far bigger than myself here.

I couldn't sleep tonight, it felt like I was being watched. This morning I called in sick to calm myself down and assess the situation.

At least that _was _the plan, that is, until there was a knock on my door.

There was nobody outside, just a box.

* * *

_Inspired by SCP-426_


	2. Cattivo

I tried to throw it away.

I tried to throw the box away, I knew there was nothing good in it. I tossed it in the recycling bin and then pushed it to the curb, then I sat by my bedroom window and watched for the garbage truck. All I had to do was wait.

It was so easy. _Too_ easy, I should have realized.

Eventually, the garbage truck arrived, right on schedule too. I watched as the garbage men meticulously dumped the contents of the recycle bin into their truck for what felt like an eternity. When they drove off, I finally breathed a sigh a relief. It was over, almost, I would still have to do the same with the box that I had buried yesterday, the one with me in it. But for now, I was safe, I could finally return to my normal life and forget this ever happened.

Then I heard a knock at my door.

_No._

No one outside, package on the doorstep.

My mind immediately went into panic mode, everything turned into a blur as I stomped on the damn box on my porch until my foot hurt and it was nothing but a crumpled piece of junk. I even threw it in my fireplace just to be safe.

There was a knock at my door. My heart sank.

This time the box had writing on it, big black letters, written in sharpie.

**DON'T**

At least this mystery person didn't forget the apostrophe.

…

Fine, fucking fine.

I relented, albeit apprehensively, there was clearly no point in fighting… _whatever_ this was supposed to be. I figured I would get whatever my stalker wanted me to take out of the box and then I would turn it in to the police for evidence. I should've just gone to the police to begin with, but given what happened later, I doubt it would've made much of a difference.

Anyway, I tore off the masking tape, opened the lids, you know the drill. Inside was…

A phone.

Thank Christ, at least this isn't like the last one.

Anyway yeah, there was a phone in the box, a flip phone to be more specific, like the ones from the early 2000s. _Some sort of drop phone_, I initially thought, _like on those crime shows on TV._ Maybe this person wanted to get in contact with me?

I turned the phone on, immediately the phone buzzed, there was a pop-up notification indicating that I had received a text.

I opened the text, it was a photo of the local burger place I like to eat at. That's it, just the restaurant, it seemed to be fairly packed at the moment. I could see people enjoying their food through the windows of the establishment, none of them paying any mind to the photographer taking a picture of them outside.

At first, I thought my stalker wanted to meet up with me there, but I wasn't going anywhere unless I knew who I was talking to first.

I replied to the photo with a simple, "Who are you?"

No response.

_Figures_, I thought. I took a closer look at the picture, it _seemed _to be normal, but there was something off about it, I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

That's when I saw it, a figure in the reflection of one of the windows. It was a person wearing some kind of dark robe, and maybe a hood too. The figure was hard to make out, especially given that the photo had a black and white filter over it for some reason.

That's when I received another image, in color this time.

It was the local supermarket, again, nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. But this time I knew what to look for.

I found it fairly quickly this time, the robed figure was peeking out from behind a support beam inside the store. None of the other people in the photograph seemed to notice its presence, even those who were practically right next to it as they passed its hiding place.

I also had a better view of it this time around, the figure seemed to be wearing some kind of white mask over its face. Again, it was hard to make out, given how far it was from the camera. However, judging by the height of the people around it, I could, at the very least, estimate that it was taller than me by at least a few inches.

I closed the photo and sent the stranger another text, "Why are you sending me these?"

It replied with another photo, sepia tone.

I recoiled and damn near threw up when I saw what it sent me, the figure was practically right next to the camera now, the background of the photo showing what looked to be the highway I took to work every morning. From this view I could clearly see that what I originally thought was a mask was actually some kind of rotting dog skull, with two marble white eyes in its sockets, and that what I thought was a black hood was actually the thing's hair and ears.

"This isn't funny, are you the one sending me the packages?" I hit send.

Yet another photo in response, it was of the park that was about a block from my house. The photo was color again and the figure was still in the foreground but to the side of the image. Oddly, it had its arm stretched out toward the camera, almost like it was taking a selfie.

I didn't even have time to reply before it sent me yet another photo, this time of my street, color. The figure was, again, in the foreground, in the center of the shot.

It was getting closer.

"Fuck off, asshole. You know this counts as stalking right?" I sent. (I know it's stupid to think something like that would scare them off, but I would've said anything at that point if it meant I was left alone.)

Another photo, a wide shot of my house, black and white again. The figure was sitting on the curb next to the recycling bin, casting an aside glance at it.

I shuddered, "Please just leave me alone," I texted.

Another photo, my doorstep, I didn't even bother looking for the figure in the image this time, I just ran to the front door and flung it open, ready to beat the everloving crap out of whatever was on the other side.

Nothing.

There was a buzz in my pocket, another photo…

It was of me from behind, looking out the front door. The figure was casually leaning over my shoulder, apparently trying to see what I was looking at as well.

I spun around, there was no one behind me.

The phone buzzed again; I didn't look at it.

I ran.

I ran out the door and to my car and I drove and drove until I ran out of gas, then I filled up my tank and kept driving, all without looking back, I must have been 60 miles from my house by the time I decided to stop and take a rest at a hotel. The hotel was sleazy, and the mattress was a little hard, but good lord was I tired.

I didn't know what to do at that point, how the hell would I explain this to the police? They'd probably think I was a psychopath no matter how I spun it.

Would I ever see my home again? Did I even _want _to see my home again? Probably not, but where would I live from now on? I briefly considered couch surfing, then I remembered you need _friends_ to couch surf.

Eventually, I decided to think about the answers to those questions in the morning, at that point I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again.

Sadly, I woke up a few hours later. But I wasn't on the firm hotel mattress, I was on _my_ mattress, in my room, in my house, the same one I had left 60 miles behind me last night.

I was, understandably, freaked the hell out. Already I was making all sorts of rationalizations in my head, I even began to trying to trick myself into believing that the entirety of yesterday had been some kind of fucked up dream...

Then I noticed the writing on my bedroom wall.

I screamed, both in fear and frustration.

The word **DON'T **was written on the wall in large, black letters.

* * *

_Inspired by SCP-1471_


End file.
